The Definition of Man
by IrishNun
Summary: A journalist is given the task of researching a ghost hunting gang but he steps into a world that's more dangerous than he could imagine. This is his article. Warning: Some disturbing images.
1. What are you?

**Title:** The Definition of Man

**Summary:** A journalist is given the task of researching a ghost hunting gang but he steps into a world that's more dangerous than he could imagine. This is his article.

**AN:** I've always wanted to write from the prospective of a cop or reporter. I in no way pretend to have the writing skills of a journalist. In fact, I barely passed English in school. So, I apologise in advance for any grammatical errors. Not set at any certain time but it's somewhere after Season 5 Ep 10.

**Warning:** Some disturbing images.

*X*

**Part 1 – What are you?**

_[File: Open: New Document]_

I am a man.

A forty year old grown man, in fact.

I have a great apartment and a job I love. I'm a man's man. If a spider crawls near me, I don't give a high pitched scream and wave my hands in the air. If a mouse squeaks by me, I don't jump up on the nearest high stool and cry for help. I buy a mouse trap and kill the damn thing because I'm a man and that's what men do. We show off our muscles and protect our women. No matter what the year reads, we are all basically cave men at heart. Protecting and providing, that's what we do.

We are strong. We are brave. We fight. We are heroes. We are men. We laugh in the face of danger, ha, ha, ha!

Yup, that's what I would have told you if you had asked me the definition of man last week. But then something happened and within the space of thirty seconds I wasn't a man anymore. I had turned into a frightened little girl screaming for my life. And it was all down to two young men.

*X*

It was supposed to be a simple piece. "Take your time," my editor verbally said giving me my brief. "Brilliant," I replied. I had started out as a freelance journalist and the thought of going back to a time with no specific deadlines was going to be bliss.

The article was supposed to be centred round a group called 'Ghost Facers'. My editor's children are addicted to their website where instructional videos are broadcasted once a month. Apparently, they're very popular if you look at the number of viewers. I watched some of these videos... and well... what can I say? Maybe I'm too old but I just don't get it. Two men, I assume they're grown, speaking for three to four minutes on how to defeat ghosts. I mean, come on!

Now, don't get me wrong, I love ghost stories as much as the next guy. Ghostbusters, The Frighteners and Poltergeist are brilliantly entertaining. But that's just it. They're entertainment. As far as I'm aware, they're not real. But these guys... they actually believe. Attack the ghosts with iron. Protect yourself with salt. Really? Really!

I suppose I could have written a sarcastically funny piece on these Ghost Facers. I could have researched these fanatical fools. Found out how they began their quest and why choose ghosts as the objects of their affection. I could have ended the article with the line, "but everyone knows ghosts aren't real... or are they?" And that would have been the end of it. My editor would have been happy. His children would be happy. The readers would be happy. And most importantly, I could go back to enjoying my blissful stress free uneventful life.

But as I was watching these guys passionately speak about tracking ghosts, I heard one name that was mentioned in each clip. The name was spat out or growled with contempt and jealousy. In fact, most of the duos tips came from this person. His name? Someone named Winchester.

This is what my story needed, an unknown entity. Who was this man or was even just one man? Was Winchester a group of men, like Ghost Facers? I needed to find out more and luckily I knew a guy who knew a guy.

"I'm going out of the country for a couple of weeks," my contact disclosed handing me a brown envelope a few days later. "I need a holiday. I won't be contactable," he added pulling up the collar of his jacket around his neck and walking away with his head down. It wasn't even a cold night! Plus in all the years I've known him, he's never once told me anything about his personal life especially his holiday plans. Of course, at the time, I didn't think the conversation was unusual. I took the slightly heavy envelope and eagerly headed home.

Upon opening it though, I realised why my contact was so eager to get out of the country. The files contained information on a John Winchester and his two sons Dean and Sam. A mysterious house fire when the eldest was four years old seemed to have changed their lives for the worse. There were FBI files, most wanted lists, a string of robberies and fraud. Each arrest led to their deaths only to see them re-appear a couple of months later. Either they were true masterminds or they had a lot of help.

I had to meet these brothers but I didn't know how. There was no forwarding address and my contact was now missing in action. I thought about the Ghost Facers gang and wondered if the Winchesters hunted ghosts as well. Ghost hunters being on the most wanted list sounded ridiculous but then why did Ghost Facers continuously mention them in their videos? I hoped that the brothers didn't believe that crap and just told them silly stories to shut them up, like children asking 'why' all the time. But, just in case, I checked the internet for any recent unusual cases in the surrounding area and found one. A family was run out of their home by an angry intruder. Their dog didn't get out in time and was found nailed to the living room wall. I hoped the brothers would find the story as disturbing as I did.

*X*

For an hour, I leaned against an old tree across from the house. Yellow tape sectioned it off from the public and some inquisitive neighbours hovered around the edges. A black car pulled up and two men dressed like Bureau agents stepped out waving their badges. I tried to turn my attention back to my newspaper but my eyes wouldn't let me. It was them. "My God," I remembered whispering to myself. These men had balls. Balls... that's another definition of man but I'll get to that later. I don't know about you but if I was on America's most wanted list, the last thing I would do would be to impersonate an agent or any kind of police officer for that matter. I wondered how they hadn't been caught sooner. It only took me a couple of hours to track them down. The powers in charge were going to get a strong worded letter of complaint after this article.

Later that evening, I followed them back to a cheap dirty looking hotel. I pulled out my notes from my briefcase and settled in for a few hours research before I considered approaching them. Most of the warrants against them were for identity theft and credit card fraud but one of the first major warrants was against Dean in St Louis, Missouri in 2005. Two women were tied up, beaten and brutally murdered. Dean's clothes were found stained in their blood, the murder weapon was found in his care and two bullet wounds were found in his chest. According to the police report, Dean Winchester was dead and there was even a photo to prove it.

Darkness fell and I reached my hand up to switch on the overhead light to see my notes better. Someone tapped on my window and I was surprised to see Sam Winchester greeting me with a welcoming smile. Of course, this was just a ruse to allow his brother gain entry to my car. Why didn't I lock my car? Surely being on a stakeout, it would make sense to lock the doors. The older brother switched off the light quickly and asked me my business. Mind you, those weren't his exact words. What he actually said was; what are you? I didn't know how to respond to this so I told him the truth, "I'm a man." Upon hearing his, he reached into his pocket and threw, what I hoped was, water in my face. I wiped away the drops as Sam tapped on my window again and made a rolling motion with his fingers. What could I do? I was trapped in my own car. So, I rolled down the window for him.

"Who do you work for?" he asked leaning his head inside. I suddenly felt very claustrophobic and with my voice cracking, I told them which newspaper I worked for and the article I was doing on the Ghost Facers. "Those douche bags!" Dean growled in contempt. There was no jealousy there. "Maybe, he's telling the truth," Sam shrugged. "Maybe, he _is_ just a man." Just a man! I suddenly felt quite offended. There was nothing 'just' about being a man and I was about to dispute his statement when I turned back to Dean. His eyes were darker than in the police photos. His face creased and his jaw was set in an angry position. He smelled like stale alcohol and fries. He wasn't a man to be messed with. "If you keep following us, you _will_ get hurt," he threatened and left my car.

Sam tried to call his brother back and apologise to me at the same time. "That wasn't a threat," he tried to persuade me. It wasn't working. "Look," he sighed with a smile. He smelled like strawberries and vanilla and after noticing his long soft hair, I hoped it was the smell of his conditioner. "We're honoured that you would choose to write a piece on us especially over the Ghost Facers but... you don't want to do that." I could see him glance at my notes. All their warrants could be clearly seen. "It's too dangerous for you to follow us. Trust me we're only trying to protect you." I asked him from what but he just smiled sadly and walked away.

I remembered looking down at my hands after they re-entered their motel room. I had been holding onto the steering wheel so tightly after the brothers invaded my personal space that my knuckles were white. I checked myself in the rear view mirror. My face was still wet and looked drained. The short experience scared me. Never, in all my years, had I been so scared... but that fear was about to get a whole lot worse.

*X*

**AN:** So what'd you think? This is my first time writing in the first person. Thanks for reading.


	2. Who are you?

**AN:** Wow, I wasn't expecting so many reads. I honestly thought there'd be a couple of likes and that's it. So I am very grateful for the response. Warning again for some disturbing images.

*X*

**Part 2 – Who are you?**

I don't know what I was thinking. I was scared and angry. In all my years of being a journalist and I've interviewed drug addicts, fraudsters and thieves but never once did I actually fear for my life. And I have never, ever been threatened. These men were ten years my junior and they effectively bullied me into submission. This angered me and I wanted to hit something. My steering wheel wasn't giving me enough satisfaction so I did something I shouldn't have. Of course, in retrospect, I now know it wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done and after I kicked in the door, I immediately realised my mistake. But I was pissed off and in the heat of the moment the only thing running through my head was revenge. What I didn't take into consideration was the guns and as soon as I invaded their privacy, there were two pointed at my head.

Both brothers swore in anger. Sam, who was nearest the door, switched on the lights and quickly locked the door behind me. Dean made a comment about not getting the deposit back as he placed his gun down the back of his pants again.

But why weren't they scared? With three digits, I could reveal their hiding place. Why weren't they angry? They had guns. They knew how to use them. One bullet and a flick of the 'do not disturb' sign and the housekeeper wouldn't find my body for days. No one knew I was there. There would be another warrant issued for their arrest, assuming they used their real names.

Maybe the police were wrong. Maybe these guys weren't murderers. They seemed genuinely worried for my safety and it was then that I noticed the notes. Laptops open, pages on the floor, books on the bed, newspaper clippings on the wall. It looked like my apartment minus the dirty yellow carpet.

They didn't stop me when I stepped towards the wall and scanned my eyes over the pages. There was the witness report from the family, the police report of the murdered dog and the coroner's report which stated the dog's neck was broken before he was nailed to the wall. There was the list of previous occupants of the house. All of whom had left the house under suspicious circumstances. At the end of the wall was information on a man named Robert Waterstone. After suffering an abusive childhood, Robert passed his boredom by torturing his pets. First his fish, then gerbils, then cats and finally dogs. When his moved onto his three year old neighbour, he was jailed for ten years. Upon his release, he murdered his father and mother. I couldn't believe it. They had solved the case. So why weren't they passing on the information?

"Keep reading," Sam told me. Police found Robert just as he was finished nailing his father's body to the wall. He was shot through the heart and died instantly. The year was 1949. My heart sank. The description of the family's attacker fitted the picture of Robert perfectly. "So you _are_ ghost hunters?" I turned to them disappointingly.

"Among other things," Dean had opened a bottle of beer for himself. "And those warrants," I hoped. "You never really killed those people, did you? You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Oh no, we killed them," Sam said emotionless. "Yeah," Dean nodded. "They just weren't people."

Right then I was more confused than ever. Not people? What they hell did that mean?

Sam motioned to the door. "You know you're still free to leave. You can go back to your editor and tell him what you've found." "Or you can stay," Dean handed me a bottle of beer. "And learn a truth you can never reveal." "I'm a reporter," I replied accepting the bottle from him. "I'm going to write the truth."

Dean laughed. "No, you're not. You're going to write about those douche bags and wish you had left when you had the chance." I gave half a laugh back. This was the story of the decade. "I'm going to write the truth," I repeated and held my breath as they decided my fate. They were either going to tell me who they really were or they were going to kill me where I stood. Dean raised his eyebrows and although he was obviously the boss of the two, he looked to his little brother for advice. Now when I say Sam was little, there was nothing little about him. His towering strong physic scared the crap out of me and when he lifted his gun off the table, I did everything not to faint in front of him. He took the clip out of his gun and told his brother to show me the journal.

Dean walked over to his duffel bag and pulled out a book, throwing it towards me. It landed on the bed and I sat beside it, placing my beer on the floor by my feet. I rubbed my fingers over its worn leather face. It was many years old and I took in a deep breath before opening it. It randomly opened on a page. The left page showed a drawing of the face of a monster. On the right, written in heavy black pen, was the beast's description, areas it could be found and ways of killing it. I flicked over the page. In tall capital letters, the word Reaper was written. Again there was a drawing and a description. I flicked through the next few pages. Windigos, djinns, skin walkers. It was like the rough work to a comic book.

"It's more like the start of an autobiography," Dean cut my thoughts. They were both watching me now. Sam had magically found a beer and was half way down the bottle. "It was our fathers'," Dean continued, his tone a lot calmer than earlier. I wondered what had changed. "Your father had a fantastic imagination," I looked down at the journal again. There were drawings of symbols and lengthy verses of Latin and other languages I wasn't familiar with. I wondered why there were showing me this nonsense. "It's all true," Sam stood up to grab a second bottle. The giant of a man had some appetite for alcohol. Dean was still on his first one... I think. "We're hunters," he continued. "We've hunted everything that's in that book and even a couple that haven't been documented yet."

I watched his face for any twitches and his eyes for any sudden movements. I was basically looking for anything that showed he was lying but I couldn't find anything. This guy could be a world class championship poker player, he was that good. He actually believed what he was saying was the truth and no amount of my sceptic looking faces could change that. They couldn't honestly expect me to believe all of this, could they?

"Honestly," Dean held up his free hand. "We don't expect you to believe all of this but you wanted the truth and that's what we've giving you. Our father was a hunter, our mother was a hunter before she had me and even her parents were hunters. We've been trained to be hunters all our lives and we're not the only ones. There are hundreds of hunters out there worldwide. Saving good people and hunting bad things, that's what we do."

Now, I know what you're thinking. I was thinking it too. What a load of ridiculous nonsense! Hunting things? These things are what children speak of when they're afraid of the dark or what dorks with video recorders think they can kill. They weren't hunters. They were sadistic murderers with vivid imaginations. They must have seen me roll my eyes because Dean suddenly stopped talking. "You know what?" he said standing up from the bed. "Why don't I talk to the manager, see if I can get you a room next door?"

He left before I could tell him I had my heart set on a nice looking hotel down the street. Sam must have seen the disgust in my face because his head flew back in a loud laugh. "You know, I've lived in motels two thirds of my life and I still can't get used to their 70s style decor." He stood up and went to the ice box to grab a third bottle. He tapped the cap with his fingernail. "Why don't you come on the hunt with us? We still have some work to do tomorrow. We could pick you up 'round nine tomorrow night," he suggested.

I nodded slowly. This could work in my favour, I thought. I could go with them to the house but call the cops just before we arrived. Then they'd find the Winchesters and find the dog killer and I'd get my story. I smiled and agreed to go with him but just to prove a point, that there are no such things as ghosts.

Sam leaned forward and gave a wink. "Even if it is just to prove a point."

Okay, I'm not exaggerating about the freaky mind reading ability they seemed to have. It was like everything I thought, they repeated out loud a second later. It was as if they were in my head... unless. I gasped as the realisation suddenly hit me. Sam threw his head back in another loud laugh. "How many have there been?" I asked. It was the only explanation I could come to as to how they knew what I was thinking. It had to be because they've met other reporters before. When Sam told me there had been a few, I couldn't believe it. Other reporters had investigated the Winchester brothers as well. I searched my brain for any articles on hunters or the Winchesters. There was none which meant Dean was right. Every other reporter went back home and wrote a different article. Well, that wasn't going to be me, I thought. "Is this why you guys are so nice to me?" I asked referring to Dean's change of tone. One minute he was ready to bite my head off and the next he was passing me a cold beer.

Sam shrugged. "In this world, you've got to learn to choose your battles. Most reporters run away when we threaten them. We tell the others the truth and thankfully our story never reaches the papers."

Again, I asked myself, why weren't they scared? They were putting a whole lot of trust in me not telling anyone else their crazy story. How were they so sure I wasn't going to say anything? Three digits on the phone, that's all it would have taken and all this ridiculous nonsense would have been over.

"I promise," Sam held up his hands, "no more mind reading. But it's not as ridiculous as you may think." He smiled when he realised that was what I was thinking too. My head was starting to hurt. "Okay, that was the last one." He sat on the bed next to me and picked up his dad's journal. Flicking through it, he sighed. "Take a look at those warrants again," he suggested some homework for me. "Look at all the victims and then read this book again. You'll see everything with different eyes and you'll wonder how you never saw it before."

I sceptically took the book back from him just as Dean reappeared swinging a set of keys in his hands. I then sat on the double bed with broken springs in the room next to them. The room smelt musty and the walls looked like they were about to burst alive with mould. I missed my apartment. I missed its large windows and bright clean walls. This place felt dirty. I wanted to have a shower but the bathroom was beyond words. The walls were so thin, I could hear the shower turn on in the next room. I pushed my ear as close to the wall as I felt safe and listened for any further conversation between the brothers. But after a quick good night from each other and a click of a switch, they were asleep.

I picked up my phone. Just three little digits, I thought. I looked at my watch. It was ten after midnight. It was too late to call my editor and too late to call the hotel to enquire about accommodation. For ten minutes I stood there undecided. Stay or go. Be a man with balls or be just a man. I decided to give myself an hour, take a look at some of their cases and look through the journal again. What was the worst that could happen?

*X*

**AN:** Next chapter out soon. Hope to get it out before the weekend. Thanks for reading. Reviews always welcome.


	3. We were wrong

**AN:** My apologies for the delay. Haven't had the best internet connection for the last few days... anyway thanks to everyone for reading especially those who don't usually read first person fics. I'm in that category myself! Hope you enjoy this next part.

*X*

**Part 3 – We were wrong**

The last thing I remembered was looking at my watch at six thirty five. When I awoke again, the afternoon sun was trying it's best to blind me. I tried desperately to close the curtains but they wouldn't close fully. It had been a good many years since I pulled an all nighter. I used to do it all the time in college especially in the run up to exams. I even did a few when I was a freelancer and then a couple after some successful dates but that was at least ten years ago. And as I creaked my neck to the side, I realised my body wasn't ready to go back to that life.

The time was four fifteen. I had been asleep so long I had gone past the point of hunger. I looked down at my notes. I had done what Sam asked and on second glance things did seem slightly different. Like a warrant in Carthage, Missouri. A man named Jack Montgomery was found burned alive in his home. His wife, Michelle, was missing and presumed dead. Neighbours witnessed two young men, matching Dean and Sam's description leave the house carrying what looked like the body of another man. They put him in the trunk of their car and left the scene under the cover of darkness. I looked at the police report which stated Mister Montgomery's biological father also died the same way. The coroner's report stated the victim's last meal was made up of raw meat and human flesh. The house's floor contained enough blood for two people and a closet door which was broken from the inside. It didn't make sense. Why kill two men and only take one away? And where was Missus Montgomery and her car? Did she leave before or after her husband was killed? If she left after, why did the brothers let her go? And who was this other man?

I flicked open the leather bound journal. I had spent all night reading every page so finding a monster that ate human flesh didn't take long. It was called a Roogaroo. I know what you're thinking. That sounds made up but according to this book, they were real. They started off as humans then turn into a rotted teeth, wormy skin, flesh eating monster. The only way to kill them was to burn them alive. Worst of all, the wormy skin can be passed down through the male gene. If Jack was killed for being a Roogaroo then his father was probably killed for the same reason. "Oh," I said louder than I intended when I realised a possible reason for the wife's disappearance. "She was pregnant," I said with a gasp turning my head to a mouldy corner of the bedroom.

A loud thud on the door made me jump out of my skin. I quickly pulled back the curtains and saw Dean standing outside wearing a goofy grin. I had barely opened the door when he barged into my room carrying what smelled like beef burger and fries. "I wasn't sure if you had breakfast or not," he yelled slightly too loud for my head to handle. Under normal circumstances, I would have welcomed the food but with a late night and no breakfast, the smell made my stomach churn. "Well, suit yourself," he shrugged obviously noticing my discomfort.

I wanted to grab him before he left. He turned with suspicion. "We're going to be heading over to the house round eight. We'll bang on the wall when we're ready to go," he went to leave again. That wasn't what I wanted to speak to him about. "Do you ever hate your father for taking you on the road with him?" I threaded carefully. "Or for training you guys as hunters?" I tried my best not to use finger air quotes on the last word and was thankful I succeeded. Dean's eyes narrowed and his jaw was so fixed that, for an instant, I was sure he was going to hit me. He then lowered his head and let out a deep sigh. "Sometimes," he replied unexpectedly and I blinked widely. This was going to be my exclusive. I wanted to grab a pen or a recorder but decided against it. I was afraid of scaring him out the door so I allowed him to continue. "But after our mother died, he did his best to keep us together and if that meant taking us on the road with him…" He looked at me with a pair of deep penetrating eyes. If I were a woman, I would have melted under the pressure.

"Did you know that Sammy attended Stanford for a few years?" he tried changing the subject. His eyes gleamed with pride. I said I didn't. I lied. He laughed. "You're a terrible liar," he slapped my shoulder and turned to leave again. But just as he hovered over the threshold, he turned his head slightly. "Sometimes, I think how my life would be if I weren't a hunter and I think I'd feel empty. What's important is having family and friends around you. It shouldn't matter what your job is… but it does." He looked over at my notes. "I've lost a lot of friends and loved ones in this business. I've lost my father, my mother and Sammy more times than I can handle but still, I wouldn't give up this job for anything. Not even for the devil himself," he laughed. Then just before he shut the door he added one last thing. "My father may have been an angry drunken asshole but he was my dad and I loved him. And if you ever repeat that to anyone, I swear I will end you."

Family and friends, I thought as his threat went in one ear and out the other. I quickly flicked opened the journal again. At the back, there was a torn page containing a list of names and dates. I dismissed it the first time I saw it but I checked the date of the Roogaroo case and noted it corresponded to one name on the list. A man named Travis. There were no surnames. In another section, I found the preferred way for a hunter to be buried. It wasn't underground like other people. It was to be burned to prevent the body being possibly possessed. The man in their trunk wasn't just another victim. He was a hunter and a friend. They weren't hiding the body from the cops. They were taking him away to be buried and mourned. I looked over the list of names again. Other names matched other cases and there were more names than cases, roughly twenty. Some of them even died the same day, like Ellen and Jo. Whoever they were, they died together.

*X*

I was licking my fingers clean when I heard the loud thumbing on the wall. I glanced at my watch. It was just after six, a whole two hours before we were supposed to leave. Sam entered my room first. "We have to go," he informed me. "There's been another attack. A group of kids broke into the house and were attacked by 'a man with nails'. They're spooked but thankfully the cops don't believe them because they were high at the time of the incident." I remembered looking from the giant to the window. The sun had hardly set in the autumn sky. "You can't be serious," I gave a nervous laugh. "You're going to murder a guy in broad day light. Are you crazy?"

You know when you're younger and you destroy a new pair of shoes you mother worked hard to buy or when you drunkenly kiss a girl who isn't your girlfriend. There's a look of disappointment given that is quite unique because it's mixed with not just sadness and anger. There's a hint of pity there too. This was the look I received from Sam. He grabbed his dad's journal and waved it angrily in the air. "Are you serious? Haven't you learned anything from this?" he threw the book at me and I struggled to grab it before all the loose pages fell out. "I thought you said this would work," Dean growled in an almost whisper. The anger in his voice was similar to our first encounter. Obviously it wasn't his idea to invite me on their hunt. I looked towards Sam and realised I was putting my fate in their hands again. He pulled his hair back angrily and breathed loudly. "I guess I was wrong," he growled and left the room swaying his shoulders up and down with each step. These guys went through their emotions faster than a rollercoaster and I wondered if there was more to hunting the supernatural than what was in an old book.

I'm not sure why but I wanted to shout out to him. I wanted to call him back and tell him I was sorry but I couldn't move. I looked down at the leather journal again, unsure what to do next. Dean glanced up to the heavens and I could have sworn I heard him whisper a prayer for strength to someone who wasn't God. It was then that I learned the truth. There had been six journalists before me. The first two were scared off by John's threatening rants. The other four were met with a kinder approach as requested by Sam. They were each given the same treatment as me. They were gently told the truth, shown the journal and invited on a hunt. When Dean showed up earlier, he wasn't there to bring me breakfast. He was there to check up on me. It seems as though I was the only one who stayed. I remembered thinking it was odd that I got so much food. Even if I didn't have breakfast, a burger, fries and a large salad was way too much for one person. What was also unique to me was that none of the other journalists were allowed to take the journal away with them. For some reason Sam entrusted me with their father's journal. I looked down at the book again and wondered what made me so special?

"So," Dean tapped his hand on the door frame. "Are you coming or not?" My eyes widened. I doubted Sam still wanted me to join them. "Don't worry about him," Dean waved his hand in the air. "He'll get over it. Do you want to come or not?" I nodded faintly. "Well, grab you stuff and c'mon."

*X*


	4. We are brave

**AN:** A special thanks to snseriesfan; ChevyImpalla1967; tvj12; kjdw; BranchSuper; mb64 & guests who took the time to review. Thanks also to those who hit the favourite button. For everyone else... thank you too. This is the last part. Enjoy!

*X*

**Part 4 – We are brave**

I felt like a little kid sneaking into an R rated movie. I was so excited and nervous I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. As we snuck under the yellow tape, all I could think was that this was so dangerous. I looked at the other men's faces. They were strong and prepared. They both carried sawn off shot guns loaded with salted bullets. Sam had a small oil canister. Dean passed by the fireplace and handed me a pair of metal tongs. "Here, just in case." I nodded as I held it firmly in both hands. Memories of my childhood flashed back. I suddenly remembered playing in the back yard with my best friends, Karl and Joe. We were playing pirates and Karl gave me a wooden stick which I pretended was a sword. Everything was fun until Joe fell out of the tree house and broke his leg. We weren't allowed to play pirates anymore after that. The differences however was that this was real. Real as in there were real guns and real injury of possible death. "Stay close," Sam instructed to me. What I really wanted to do was stay behind and leave the way we came but I was too scared, so I did what I was told.

I'd like to say, I can't remember what happened next. I'd like to say, I passed out or hit my head knocking me unconscious. But unfortunately I do remember. I've been honest so far so there's no point in making something up now. I screamed. I screamed like a little girl. And it wasn't from what you might expect. We were silently sneaking our way through the house when something dropped on my head. My imagination went wild and I thought it was a nail. I screamed and jumped around like a little girl shouting, "Get it off. Get it off." Dean finally got me under control by slapping me hard across the face. "Calm down, dude," he forcefully ordered. "It was just a spider. You walked through a cobweb." I then noticed Sam trying, unsuccessfully, not to laugh. Well, I felt very stupid. So much for being a man! "Dude," Sam slapped me in the arm. "That had to be the funniest thing ever." "I'm glad I could be of amusement to you," I pretended to bow. "I'm about to crap my pants here, I'm so scared." But Dean told me to relax. "It's just a murderous ghost with nails and a hammer." Very helpful!

We didn't speak again until we reached the main bedroom. The newspaper article from 1949 stated that Robert Waterstone's body was cremated and I thought you had to salt and burn their bones to get rid of the spirit. Both men stopped and stared at me. I saw a small smile appear on Sam's lips. "So, you did learn something." I shrugged and tried not to blush. "Some ghosts can attach themselves to people or objects," Dean informed me. "While Robert was in prison he became an accomplished carpenter. The prison guards thought it would calm down his thoughts and he would be less likely to kill again. When he died, these items were destroyed except for one," he pointed to the corner of the room. "It's quite beautiful work for a sadistic murderer." I turned to look at what he was pointing at. It was chest of drawers made of dark mahogany. The front had leaves and flowers carved into the wood, while the legs were in the shapes of lion paws. I was surprised at its beauty and if I didn't know who made it, I would have bought it myself.

Sam had barely removed the lid of the canister when a vision flashed in front of us. I gasped at the image of Robert Waterstone. So, ghosts were real. The ghost opened his mouth in a yell and raised his arms at his side. My chest was hit with such force it felt like I had been hit by a jeep. I was thrown back to the wall but I wasn't knocked out. I opened my eyes to see the ghost hold Sam up by the neck. I noticed that Dean looked momentarily confused. What could I do? I panicked. I saw the thongs that had fallen out of my hands and charged at the ghost with them. He disappeared with one swipe and as Sam fell to the ground the colour swiftly came back to his cheeks. He pointed to the fallen canister. "Pour it over the drawers," his voice was raspy. "We have to burn all traces of him." I nodded and did what I was told.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I certainly changed my tune fairly quickly but it actually happened earlier that day back at the motel when I discovered what a skin walker was. The brothers were hunting one around the same time of Dean's supposed death in 2005. It was a monster that could copy itself to any person and it was a good explanation to what happened. In fact, all the warrants, apart from the credit cards fraud, could be connected to a demon or monster. The Roogaroo case just dotted the i. Apart from it being my favourite name for a monster it solidified my reasons in believing they were in fact who they said they were. They were hunters. My outburst with Sam was what the old me would have said. I don't think my brain had caught up to my heart when I said that. I certainly didn't mean it. So when Sam told me to burn the chest of drawers to get rid of the ghost, I quickly complied.

However, I only got to soak one side. The ghost returned more vengeful than before. Within seconds I was pinned up on the wall. Nails appeared in the ghost's hands and without the use of a hammer he drilled them into my hands. The pain was so excruciating I thought I was going to pass out. With the ghost's attention all on me, Sam was able to cover the rest of the drawers with oil and Dean was able to throw his lighter over it.

*X*

If you haven't guessed already, Dean was right all along. When I got home, I didn't write the truth. What in fact was published was a sarcastically funny piece about a group of young people called Ghost Facers. My editor was happy, his children were happy, the readers were happy and surprisingly, I was happy too.

Straight after the hunt, we quietly sat together in a small cheap 70s style motel room. As soon as the ghost disappeared so did the nails in my hands leaving two bullet sized holes. Dean cleaned my bloody hands with alcohol and gently stitched the wounds before wrapping them in bandages. He was so gently, I was surprised there was no need for an anaesthetic. I wondered how young he was when he first picked up a needle and thread or how often he stitched up his brother's wounds and vice versa.

Sam tore down their notes from the walls and burned them in a metal trash can as he had done probably a thousand times before. He rolled his and his brother's clothes up in a duffel bag ready to leave at first light. As I watched him, I noticed he was a lot smaller than the giant size I first saw the night before. He looked tired and weather beaten. Like his brother, it looked as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. It was then that I asked them what made me so special. How did he know I wouldn't run off with their dad's journal? How did he know I would believe them?

"Because," Sam said rolling up his jeans. "You're a man." When Dean and I exchanged a blank look, Sam laughed. "When we asked the other journalists what they were, they all said they were nobodies but you... you said you were a man. And when I said you were 'just a man', I saw the look of anger in your face. See, there are three types of people in this world; people who look away, people who think they're brave and people who actually are."

When I got home, I tried to go back to my old blissful life but every time I heard of an unsolved death, I wondered if the brothers were involved somehow. Or if an unusually high number of earthquakes occurred on the one day, I questioned if it was supernatural related. As I handed over my piece on the Ghost Facers to my editor at the end of the week, I wondered if I was brave enough to tell the truth. When Sam told me of the other reporters, I noticed a glint in his eyes. At the time, I thought it was because he had successfully stopped them from revealing the truth. But now I'm not so sure. Why would he give me their father's journal unless he wanted me to be a little braver? Would people really start riots? It wasn't like I was the only one who knew. Dean said there were hundreds of hunters worldwide. Even if they only saved ten people a year, that's over a thousand families who knew the existence of monsters. When I began to write this blog, I only wanted to do so for my own record. Am I brave enough to hit send?

At the beginning of this piece, I gave my definition of man. I said we were strong. We were brave. All men are heroes and laugh in the face of danger. I'd like to change that, if I may. Sam was right. It's easy to say we laugh in the face of danger but how many of us actually do.

The definition of man isn't a hero. That title can only go to a select few.

And I only know two.

_[File: Exit: Do you want to save the changes? Yes] _

_[Do you want to send?... No]_

_*X*_


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